September 26, 2015

Boquete is a nice town in the Chiriqui Highlands, at about 4,000 feet elevation. There isn’t a lot going on in the town itself, but the area around Boquete is very scenic and has a nice feel to it. Because of the elevation, the temperatures tend to stay constant year-round, with an average high around 80 and a low in the mid 60s. The climate is not only great for growing coffee, but for growing an ex-pat population as well. It seems that of the 25,000 or so residents of Boquete, nearly 25 percent are from North America or Europe.

I walked down to the Sugar & Spice Bakery for breakfast, and the place was packed, And I think all but one family was from the United States originally, although most were now locals.

The hostel here is very nice, very clean and well organized. As with most hostels I’ve stayed at, it offers both dormitory and private rooms, some with private baths and some with shared baths.

 

I spent the afternoon adjusting the valves on my bike under the covered patio area while it poured rain. I’m sure I could have gone longer without checking them, and only the intake was slightly loose, but I had the time and figured this was a good place to do it.

 

I could stay here in the cool temperatures for several more days, but I have a few things on my “list” that I want to get done before heading for South America in another 10 days.

September 28, 2015

This morning I walked into Boquete and bought some oil, then stopped at a small car repair shop a block from where I was staying, and asked the owner if I could change my oil in his lot and leave my used oil with him. He not only said yes, but cut a one gallon plastic jug into a drain pan for me and showed me where I could pour my used oil into his recycle drum. Another very nice, helpful local that didn’t hesitate to help out a complete stranger. That seems to be a theme on this trip. While changing my oil, we got to talking a bit, and he asked where I had been.

“Mexico? Guatemala? Very dangerous!” he said.

I smiled and told him how friendly and beautiful those countries had been. It’s still funny to hear how the countries on either side of where I am presently are always dangerous, but not where I am. Now that I think about it, I’ve been hearing that since I was standing in Texas.

It’s also interesting to hear the same theme from the owner of this auto repair business in small town Panama compared to another in Texas. Aside from the language difference, the story was the same: in slow economic times, people either extend their maintenance or do without. They try to go longer between oil changes, but don’t want to spend the extra money on quality oils that can survive the extended use, setting themselves up for trouble and greater expense all because they are trying to “save” money. This of course has affected his business and he is somewhat thankful for the ex-pats that have moved to town and add to his business.

 

I came down from the Chiriqui Highlands of Boquete to David (pronounced Dah-Veed) to try to find tires for my bike before heading to Panama City. David is Panama’s second largest city, and is primarily in an agricultural lowland area. Many things were immediately noticeable: first, the humidity. Phew. Automatic diet plan: just sit and sweat it off.

Second, within a block, I saw KFC, McDonalds, Pizza Hut, and even a Dairy Queen. This is generally not a good indicator of where I want to be.

Third, I was quickly reminded of what I don’t like about Americans (okay, just certain ones), and hostels. The hostel shall remain nameless (but let’s just say, if you ever find yourself in David, don’t stay in any hostel named after a color). The American woman who owns and runs the hostel (I shall also leave her nameless) immediately began asking very inquisitive and I felt rather personal questions before I was even inside the gate. Then she warned me not to walk away from my motorcycle while it was outside of the gate, and once it was inside the gate, told me that my locked aluminum boxes on the bike were not safe and I needed to take anything of value out. (So, let’s see…it’s okay to walk four blocks to the grocery store and restaurant, but my stuff isn’t safe locked up inside your walled compound. Okay….).

As with most places in Central America, if air conditioning is offered, it is at an extra price and only for certain hours. In this case, it was an extra $5 beginning at 8pm. By 7pm I was still sweating profusely and the room was stifling, so around 9pm, I decided to spend the extra money and “rent” the A/C remote controller. I walked in and asked if I could pay for the A/C. “Sure, but that room is so small, it will cool off fast, so you don’t need it yet. Check back with my night clerk after 10pm.”

Uh, let’s see….the rental rate begins at 8pm. I can’t go into the room at 9pm because it’s still too hot. But I am told I don’t need it until after 10pm. Rather than respond and run the risk of more personal questions and observations about my sleeping habits, etc, I went back outside and continued to sweat in the driveway, wondering why I didn’t just ride the 25 miles back up the hill to Boquete where it was 69 degrees already.

So, lesson learned. No more room rentals from American ex-pat former Peace Corps workers with attitude.

Oh, and I never found tires either. But I have a good lead in Panama City now, so that’s at the top of my list.

In the “Very Small World” category, as I was walking across a busy street in David this afternoon, way off the beaten tourist path, a guy on a motorcycle stopped to let me cross, and as I walked in front of him, he said “Hey, stranger”. It was a guy from Oregon on a Kawasaki Ninja that I had met at the Nicaragua – Costa Rica border crossing. I’ve probably passed a couple of million people since then, criss-crossing from the Pacific to the Caribbean and back through two countries, and if I had been five seconds sooner or later, our paths would not have crossed again in David, Panama. Even off the Gringo Trail, it’s a small world.

 

September 29, 2015

You don’t get to Santa Catalina by mistake. It’s not the kind of place you stumble upon while driving through on the way to somewhere else. Santa Catalina is at the end of the road, about sixty miles down a road to nowhere else at the end of the Veraguas Peninsula. It’s mostly a small fishing village, but as with others along the Pacific coast of Central America, the surf has attracted a separate tourism industry. 

The ride down from David gets nice as soon as you turn off the InterAmerican Highway. The first sixty miles of InterAmerican Highway (I always called this the PanAmerican Highway, but it seems to have changed names somewhere along the way) are full of construction as they widen it from two lanes to a divided four lane road. After turning off at Tole, it’s mostly twisty road through the hills with glimpses of ocean.

 

There must be some serious fishing here, as I pass lots of places with large Grady White and Contender fishing boats with twin Yamaha outboards. Some have matching high-end homes, others are parked next to very meager houses. The boat is clearly worth more than everything else on the land. 

Somewhere about 15 miles before Sona, I ride through a swarm of wasps. The noise of them smacking my face shield and the sudden realization that I’ve been stung in the throat happen about the same time. I immediately think back to the last two times I’ve been stung by bees while riding, and start grabbing at my shirt and jacket to try to keep any that might have fallen down my shirt from stinging me. The pain continues through lunch in Sona (a great carne guisada, rice, beans, and a bottle of Coca Cola for $3.25), but begins to lessen by the time I reach Santa Catalina.

It’s off-season now, and there are only two German women staying at the hostel at the moment (and it’s managed by another German woman — is there a secret Central America movement I don’t know about? Clearly this part of the world has some heavy word-of-mouth advertising in Germany). 

I have a private grass hut overlooking the beach with a shared bath. Hammocks hang just outside the door, and the ocean breeze helps to mitigate the humidity.

 

Town and a fish dinner is an easy two kilometer ride. Otherwise, I don’t plan to move from the hammock for the next several hours.

September 30, 2015

In the morning I said goodbye to the beach and headed inland once more.

After backtracking 60 miles up the peninsula to the InterAmerican Highway, it’s another 60 miles down the highway to the turnoff at Anton. Parts of this ride remind me of Highway 99 through the Central Valley of California. Divided four lane, lots of farms and ranches, big hills in the distance. It just has a similar feel.

On the way it starts getting very dark ahead. It’s lunch time and looking like some serious rain is headed this way, so I pull off at a Chinese restaurant on the side of the highway. Big, nice place. Good food. And sure enough, it starts to really pour. Lightning. Thunder. Heavy rain. After an hour or so it lets up, and I’m back on the bike headed for Anton, my balding knobby tires performing better than expected for the conditions.

The road from Anton up to El Valle de Anton, or Anton Valley, starts out with some potholes but turns to a nice two lane. It starts in jungle-like foliage, climbs through pine forest, then up to clear-cut. The last climb is sharp and steep, with some switchbacks I can only describe as “quirky”. Just as suddenly the road descends via similarly quirky, sharp switchbacks into Anton Valley, which is actually in the six kilometer wide crater of an inactive volcano at about two thousand feet elevation.

 

I’m staying at the Bodhi hostel, which opened about eleven months ago and is doing a good business based on the people I see wandering in and out. Definitely the backpacker crowd, but this place is great for motorcyclists as well as they have a large fenced and locked lot adjacent to the hostel, and directly across the street from the police station. Secure parking shouldn’t be a problem.

The dormitory is huge and there are quite a few guests. I choose a private room with shared bath. The room is on the small side but comfortable.

Oreo, the adopted hostel dog, greets me at the door. I’m told he’s a “mountain dog”; he has helped guide lost hikers off the mountain several times. Apparently he helped a hostel guest down from the mountain, and the hostel since adopted him. He’s still free-roaming, but he wanders back every night.

Tomorrow is Panama City. I have a few days of projects, sight-seeing, and hopefully other things to do there. The weather won’t be as cool as here in Anton Valley, but I’m beginning to adjust to the heat and humidity of being this close to the equator. Or at least beginning to accept it.

 

October 1, 2015

Leaving Anton Valley I saw on my GPS what looked like an interesting small road cutting across to the highway that might save some time. Just a few kilometers from the hostel, I turned left and drove past beautiful million dollar homes on perfectly landscaped large lots. While this area hasn’t really been “discovered” by the foreign tourists and retiring ex-pats, it is a favorite spot for wealthy residents of Panama City who want to escape the heat for the weekend.

Further up this small road the climb became quite steep. Perhaps one of the steepest paved public roads I’ve ever experienced. I kept thinking the front wheel was going to come off the ground with all the weight I have on the rear of the bike. Eventually I crested the rim of the crater and almost immediately came to a security guard at a large gate. It seems my shortcut has been privatized into a luxury resort. I asked if the road still went to Bejuco, and the guard said yes, but it is now private. I smiled, thanked him, and headed back down the way I came.

Just as I got back to the main road out of Anton Valley, it started to rain. And it didn’t stop until I got to Panama City. I crossed over the Paraiso bridge over the Panama Canal into Ciudad del Saber (the City of Knowledge) and rode parallel to the canal past the Miraflores Locks. This area was once the Clayton military base when the United States controlled the canal. It has since been turned into businesses, schools, scientific research facilities, and residences with a focus on improving quality of life for Panamanians. There are still a lot of U.S. citizens living here.

I arrived at my guest house around 2pm, but the host family wasn’t home, and with a break in the rain I decided to head into Panama in search of tires. About ten minutes later, the bottom fell out of the sky, and I was riding in dense traffic in what felt like a waterfall. Since it wasn’t raining when I left the house but was humid, I had left the collar of my jacket open. Now I struggled to close it in traffic. I clearly didn’t get the flap sealed correctly, and within minutes I was drenched. As was everything else in my jacket. Fortunately I keep my passport in a waterproof envelope, but my smartphone and wallet took the brunt of it. I spent the next 45 minutes riding around and around, looking simply for a place to stop under some sort of cover, but finding nothing. I went ot Albrook Mall, a huge shopping center, thinking I would find a parking garage. Nope. People here take buses or taxis to the mall.

Streets flooded. Buses and cars zipped past me, spraying me with additional walls of water. The bike died. Five or six times. It always started right back up, but clearly it wasn’t happy about its’ current status as submarine. Heading back towards the house, I rode through a “puddle” on an on-ramp, and watched the front axle disappear. The water was deep enough that at 35 mph the pressure pulled my feet off the footpegs. I turned the throttle wide open, pointed the bike straight ahead, and hoped for the best. It didn’t get any deeper and I came out the other side and headed for “home”.

On Friday the weather cleared and I again went in search of tires, finally locating some Pirelli MT60s near downtown. Not exactly what I had been looking for — considerably less off-road oriented than what I’ve been using — but they should get me well into South America.

My host family invited me for dinner Friday night, and I had a great meal and conversation. They are from Ecuador, and love and miss their homeland. I broke out my Ecuador map and Carlos gave me some great tips on what not to miss in Ecuador.

On Saturday morning, Carlos and Dianna and family left for a weekend island expedition and whale watching, and left me the entire house; not just the small cabana I’m staying in. I am again amazed at the generosity and openness of people. I’ve been here a day, and they give me a key to their house and leave. “See you Sunday!”

My phone continued to dry out for a couple of days, and after some false starts, it seems to work again. I don’t use it as a phone, but it has a lot of information in it, and a couple of navigation apps that sometimes (okay, often) work better than the Garmin GPS in this part of the world. I would miss that if the phone died completely.

I spent Saturday sight-seeing. First up was Casco Viejo, the old part of Panama City. Much of this area was built in the 1700s, and it has a very New Orleans colonial look and feel to it.

 

 

 

After lunch in Casco Viejo, I headed to the Balboa Yacht Club. This is one of several harbors on the Pacific side that private boaters use before transiting the Panama Canal. I had read that the canal requires four people on each boat that passes through, and many solo sailors and couples need to hire deckhands (line handlers, actually) to assist through the canal. I hung around the docks and posted a small ad on their bulletin board to see if I could volunteer as a linehandler. It’s a one-day trip through the canal, and I could ride the bus or train back from the other end. Seemed like a great way to see the Panama Canal, for free. It’s not high-season, and there are few boats here at the moment. I heard there may be a better chance starting at the other end, in Colon, but that would require me either staying in a hotel there for a few days in hopes of getting a ride, or taking the bus each day. So for now, I’m hanging around the docks each morning at a couple of marinas to see if anything turns up. At the very least, I’ve met some interesting characters there.

 

 

I have a few more days of prep before heading out of Panama on Thursday. My Colombia plans are coming together. I’m excited about a new continent.

October 7, 2015

It rained heavily again Tuesday afternoon, so I spent all afternoon at the Miraflores Locks Visitors Center learning about the Panama Canal and watching ships pass through the locks. It’s an impressive sight. A huge freighter with only two feet of clearance on each side between ship and canal, being lowered twenty seven feet in six minutes. The speed and efficiency is amazing, from approaching the locks to exiting the second stage of the locks all within less than an hour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m writing this a bit early, as tomorrow morning I have to load up and leave early to ride a couple of hours to Carti, Panama. Carti doesn’t show up on many maps, and in fact even if the town name shows up, it’s likely that the road to it doesn’t show up, or Google Maps tells you it “can’t calculate a route between Panama City and Carti, Panama”.

I’ve found that a lot of directions in these parts of the world have nothing to do with highway numbers, or street names. Usually it’s something like “right after you cross the second bridge”, or “go past the blue house on the left, then turn right”, or “when you get to the fourth dirt road on the left there will be a guy sitting on a stump. Ask him for the directions to the next turn”. Okay, that last one might be a bit of a stretch, but I actually was given directions by a guy in Southern California once on how to find a place in Oregon that included a line just like that. And it worked. But that’s another story…

In any case, I have to meet the Stahlratte and its’ crew at 11am on Thursday morning to load my bike, along with ten other bikes all bound for Cartagena. In case you weren’t aware, there is no highway connecting Central and South America. The Darien Gap is a 99-mile long stretch of jungle with no road between Panama and Colombia. Yes, a couple of people have traversed it in the past. Literally a couple. And it took them a looooong time.

There are basically two ways to get to South America with a motorcycle: put it on a boat, or put it on a plane. Neither is cheap, and both require you to purchase a ticket to get yourself there as well. The plane goes to Bogota, which is near the center of Colombia and not where I was looking to start my South American travels. It’s quick, but requires crating and isn’t very entertaining. The cargo ships are cheaper, but slow, make many stops, and you can’t be sure when the bike is going to show up. That leaves the sailboat option. The popular route is aboard the Stahlratte (German for “Steel rat”), a 110 year old ship that regularly plies the route between Carti and Cartagena, with a two day stopover in the beautiful San Blas islands. More about that in my next post when I have photos and can describe the trip.

I’m scheduled to arrive in Cartagena on October 12th, and should have wifi for a day or two before heading north (yes, it sounds strange, but I will actually be further north in Colombia than I am in Panama City, Panama). The next several days after that entail a tent and beaches, so no communications access.

Which, in itself, sounds really good…

So, hasta luego until around the 13th.